The Silver Locket (14 page)

Rose gave the cabman half a crown. As he drove away, she felt a sudden ripple of apprehension, and wished she’d kept him waiting. After what she’d seen in France, she had imagined nothing could surprise her – and she was still in London, after all. But this street in Bethnal Green was such an alien place she might just as well be on the moon.

She’d never seen such squalor, so many ragged people, such filthy, blackened buildings, such general decay. As for the smell – she’d thought she was inured to stench, that nothing could be more unpleasant than the smell of gangrene coming from a putrid wound. But this place stank far worse than that, of sewage and of drains, of tanneries and of slaughter houses, of centuries of grime.

Even in the smartest parts of London, the air rained soot from half a million chimneys. But here it was especially foetid, thick with fumes and smuts from workshops, sweatshops and a thousand factories that she later learned were rendering tallow, making matches, turning out shoddy furniture or cheap clothes.

She knocked on the door of the lodging house. As she stood there waiting, children came to look at her and point.

‘You from the Board, miss?’ asked shoeless boy.

‘You one of them Sally Army people?’ asked a girl who carried a tiny baby that was snivelling miserably.

‘Where’s yer tambourine?’

‘You from the landlord, then?’

‘Got a penny ’ave yer, miss?’ The shoeless boy pawed hopefully at Rose’s smart, black bag. ‘Only me dad’s off work this week, ’e’s ’urt ’is back real bad.’

‘Get off my nice clean step!’ The door jerked open and the children scattered. ‘Who are you and what do you want? This ain’t a bleedin’ knockin’ shop,’ declared the sour-faced woman who glared angrily at Rose.

‘I’m looking for Phoebe Gower,’ said Rose politely. ‘I understand she lives here?’

‘Well, she did,’ the woman muttered. ‘But she don’t live ’ere no more.’

‘Where is she now?’ asked Rose.

‘What’s that to you, Miss Lah-di-dah?’ The woman shooed Rose off her whitened step. ‘If you’re another of ’er mates from up the ’Aggerston Palace Music ’All, you can sling yer ’ook. This is a respectable ’ouse, an’ I don’t want no tarts an’ so-called actresses round ’ere.’

‘I only want to know where Phoebe’s gone–’

‘Try Rosenheim’s.’ The woman jerked her thumb. ‘She might be lodgin’ there.’

‘Rosenheim’s?’ repeated Rose.

‘You daft or somethin’?’ barked the woman. ‘Rosenheim’s, the shop just up the road!’

The shop was dark and musty, and smelled of mice and damp. Rusting cans and faded cardboard packets filled the shelves, and sacks of flour and sugar sat on the floor.

‘May I help you, miss?’ A tiny, dark-haired woman dressed from head to foot in threadbare black emerged out of the shadows.

‘Yes,’ said Rose. ‘I’m looking for–’

But then there was a scream of pain from somewhere in the building and the hairs stood up on Rose’s head. ‘Who was that?’ she cried.

‘My lodger, miss.’ The shopkeeper shrugged helplessly. ‘She’s going to have a baby. I’m sorry, I must leave you for a minute.’

‘Mrs Rosenheim? My name’s Rose Courtenay, I’m Maria’s friend. She asked me to come and visit Phoebe. I’m a nurse, so if there’s anything I can do to help?’

‘Oh, thank God, thank God!’ Mrs Rosenheim’s relief was almost tangible. ‘Please, come in. She’s in the parlour, we couldn’t get her up the stairs.’

Rose followed Mrs Rosenheim into the gloomy parlour. Phoebe lay on a couch, her legs apart and panting hard. ‘That you, Mrs R?’ she gasped. ‘You found Mrs Bloom?’

‘Nathan’s still out looking.’ Mrs Rosenheim crouched down beside the labouring woman. ‘Look, here’s Maria’s friend. She’s a nurse, she’ll help you.’

‘Rose?’ Phoebe gaped, astonished. ‘What you doin’ ’ere, ’ow’d you find me?’

‘Maria sent me.’ Rose dragged off her hat and coat and knelt by Phoebe’s side. ‘How long have you been in labour?’

‘Bleedin’ hours, Rose! It feels like days!’ Phoebe’s dark eyes filled and tears spilled over. ‘Rose,’ she sobbed, ‘it’s agony!’

‘It’s going to be all right, you’ll see.’ Rose took Phoebe’s cold hand. ‘We’ll manage, you’ll be fine.’

‘I’m goin’ to die.’ Phoebe’s huge brown eyes were dull with pain. ‘How many babies you delivered, Rose?’

‘Dozens,’ Rose assured her, hoping Mrs Bloom would soon arrive.

‘She’s getting weaker.’ It was half past one, and Rose had been sitting at Phoebe’s side since twelve, watching her strength ebbing away and hearing her pathetic cries grow faint. ‘This Mrs Bloom, is she a midwife?’

‘Yes, and she could be anywhere in the Green.’ Mrs Rosenheim looked worried sick. ‘As I say, my Nathan’s gone out looking.’

‘What about getting a neighbour, or a friend?’ suggested Rose. ‘Someone who has children of her own, would she come and help us?’

‘No one in the Green will get involved.’ Mrs Rosenheim’s dark eyes were like a frightened deer’s. ‘You won’t understand, miss, and it would take me too long to explain, but they’re all afraid of Daniel Hanson and what he might do. Dan is an important man round here.’

Daniel Hanson? Rose recalled the burly, scowling man she’d seen with Phoebe, that day in the West End restaurant. ‘But you took her in,’ she murmured. ‘You can’t be afraid?’

‘Miss, I’m terrified.’ Mrs Rosenheim twisted her thin hands, plaiting her fingers in anxiety. ‘But Phoebe used to work for me. I knew her foster mother, may she rest in peace. When Phoebe came here, asking me for shelter, how could I turn Maisie’s child away?’

‘Rose!’ Phoebe suddenly clutched at Rose’s sleeve. ‘Rose, I think it’s coming!’

Rose looked, and saw a spreading stain darken the brocade of the old couch. She didn’t know what to do, but there was nobody to ask. So she eased off Phoebe’s drawers, knelt down between her patient’s legs, and prayed.

She saw a pale disc which had to be the baby’s head. ‘Phoebe love, the baby’s on its way,’ she whispered, as the disk grew larger and the head emerged. She watched entranced as the small shoulders came. A moment later, the child had been born and lay on the green couch, a pale ghost.

‘You need to cut the cord.’ Mrs Rosenheim looked timidly over Rose’s shoulder. ‘You’ll need some string. I’ll go and get it.’

‘Rose, don’t go!’ cried Phoebe.

‘It’s all right, I’m here.’ Rose watched the blue-grey cord come slithering out, squirming as if it were a living thing. Where should she cut it? Why did Mrs Rosenheim want string?

Nothing in her training at St Benedict’s or what she’d done in France had prepared her for the sheer astonishment and awe that had overwhelmed her as she’d watched Phoebe’s baby being born.

She almost wept when she heard voices in the passage, and a plump and cheerful-looking woman came striding purposefully into the room.

‘So, I’m too late,’ she beamed. She knelt beside the patient. ‘Excuse me, miss,’ she said to Rose. ‘Come on Phoebe, one more push, we need the afterbirth. Rachel, go and find a blanket, shawl or something warm to wrap the baby, otherwise she’s going to die of cold.’

As Mrs Rosenheim scuttled off, Rose crouched beside the midwife, watching as her skilful hands completed what Rose had haphazardly begun.

‘A lovely little girl.’ Mrs Bloom had finished with Phoebe and was examining the tiny baby. ‘Pretty as an angel, this one – going to be blonde, if I’m not very much mistaken. Let’s wipe your face, my darling. Just look at those blue eyes! Miss, would you hold her for a minute?’

‘Yeah, take ’er, Rose,’ said Phoebe.

So Rose took the child, whose face was pale and whose great, blue eyes were wide with interest. Rose thought she had never seen anything so beautiful.

She offered her a finger, the baby grasped it firmly, and Rose fell in love.

‘So make her rest and feed her up,’ the midwife ordered, as she packed her basket, then plonked her black straw hat back on her head.

‘But Phoebe isn’t safe here, and you know it.’ Rose could hear that Mrs Rosenheim was tired and scared. ‘If my Joel and Simon had been here, it wouldn’t matter – they could deal with Daniel. But there’s only Nathan.’

‘
Mamele
, don’t worry.’ Rose was cradling the child and hadn’t noticed anyone come in, but now she turned to see a white-faced boy of Phoebe’s age standing looking awkward and embarrassed by the parlour door.

He met Rose’s gaze, and she thought how nice he looked, how sweet and calm and gentle. Then she saw he was crippled. His right leg was much shorter than his left, and on his foot he wore a built-up shoe.

She realised she would have to stay. At any rate, she couldn’t go home to Dorset, leaving Phoebe weak from giving birth and Mrs Rosenheim afraid, and their only guardian a lame boy.

‘Do you have a post office in Bethnal Green?’ she asked, looking at Nathan.

‘Yes, there’s one in Old Ford Road.’ Nathan smiled, and Rose saw his brown eyes were soft and kind. ‘I thought I heard Phoebe call you Rose? So you must be Maria’s friend?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Rose. ‘I’m supposed to meet my mother later, but I think I ought to stay with Phoebe, at least until she’s feeling stronger. So could you go and send some telegrams for me?’

‘Of course. I’ll do it now.’ Nathan put his cap back on. ‘If you write down what you want to say?’

Rose looked at her watch. It was only half past two, and so she hoped there would be time. But even if there wasn’t, the clinic wouldn’t put her mother out on to the street.

She gave the child to Nathan’s mother, then wrote rapidly on the envelope of Maria’s letter.

Nathan could send a message to the clinic asking them to keep her mother there until her husband came to fetch her, and another telegram to her father asking him to get the London train, then take Lady Courtenay home to Dorset. Sir Gerard would be puzzled, but Rose was sure he’d come. Explanations and apologies would have to wait.

‘Rose?’ Phoebe had been covered with a blanket and Rose thought she had gone to asleep. ‘Rose, ’ow’s the baby?’

‘Fine.’ Rose went to crouch at Phoebe’s side. ‘She’s very pretty.’

‘Mrs Bloom was sayin’ she’d probably ’ave blonde ’air.’

‘Yes, she’s very pale, her skin’s like cream. Do you want to hold her, Phoebe?’

‘No, I don’t – not yet.’ Suddenly, Phoebe shuddered. ‘I ’oped, I prayed,’ she whispered. ‘But it made no difference. She’s goin’ to be the dead spit of ’er dad.’

‘Who
is
the baby’s father?’ Rose asked, gently. ‘I’m sure he’s going to want to see his daughter.’

‘I bet ’e bloody won’t!’ Phoebe looked at Rose. ‘You’ll kill me,’ she added wretchedly.

‘Of course I won’t.’ Rose took her hand. ‘Why should I want to hurt you?’

‘That officer what you was with, when we saw you in that West End caff.’ Phoebe shook her tousled head and sighed. ‘I dunno ’ow ’e managed to track me down. But one night last winter, after I’d done me spot up at Palace, ’e was ’angin’ about at the stage door, lookin’ like ’e’d lost the family silver cos the ’orse ’ad broke its leg. Dan was out of town, an’ I was lonely.’

Phoebe bit her lip. ‘Rose, ’e’s such a lovely-lookin’ bloke. You ’ave to give ’im that.’

‘Oh, Phoebe!’ Rose was shocked.

‘I suppose ’e’s still your feller?’

‘No – and he never was, you mustn’t worry.’ Rose stroked Phoebe’s matted, tangled hair. ‘He’s just a neighbour, somebody I’ve known since I was little.’

‘I don’t believe you, Rose.’ Phoebe’s nose was running and her eyes were very bright. ‘I seen the way ’e looked at you.’

‘It’s all right, Phoebe. Please don’t cry.’ Rose tried to smile. ‘You just go to sleep.’

‘Rose, you mustn’t leave me!’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘We’re not getting anywhere,’ said Freddie Lomax angrily and, although Alex couldn’t agree in public, he and Captain Ford knew Freddie spoke for all of them.

That autumn, heavy rain and constant shelling by the Germans had turned the British trenches into muddy pits that stank of lyddite and latrines. Alex’s company was down to half its total strength. Those who hadn’t been killed or wounded had succumbed to frostbite or been gassed.

A month ago, a gas attack on German trenches opposite had been an awful, mortifying disaster. The Royal Dorsets had been told the gas would be discharged, and fifteen minutes later they’d go over to mop up any pockets of resistance, taking prisoner anyone who surrendered and bayoneting those who put up any fight.

But on the morning of the gas attack, the engineers couldn’t find any spanners, and those the manufacturers had supplied were far too small. When all the cylinders had finally been opened and the gas discharged, the wind had changed and blown it back across the British lines. The Germans who had been supposed to perish sat safely in their trenches, burning oil-soaked cotton waste to keep the gas away.

In the weeks of skirmishing and easily-repulsed attacks that followed this debacle, Michael Easton, Freddie Lomax and their tired platoons had muddled through. But Alex got angry with himself whenever he lost men, even though Captain Ford assured him he was doing well.

‘You still got half your buggers back,’ he muttered, as he and Alex drowned their sorrows after yet another dismal show in which the battalion had lost more than fifty men. ‘That’s thirty more than Engelman or Maddox – and he’s the only officer left alive in his poor sodding company.’